Still Standing
by WhatASurprise
Summary: It was supposed to be wonderful. Denise was not supposed to lose her partner. The American Miraculous wielder Denise Ballard called Tigress by New York, faces the shockwaves of the loss of not only her superhero partner but her best friend. Stand with her as she embarks on her quest to heal as a person and a hero. Potential trigger warning, discusses depression, loss, and trauma


**Sorry for being gone so long. This is the companion story to AlchemyWriter's "Rise of the Timberwolf". These are events happening concurrently to his story but neither is required to enjoy the other.**

Denise went to see him sometime, His body laying on the table was stiff and unyielding. When her fingers laced with his, they were cold. "Oliver," She whispered. Moments of clarity emerged in between the blurred colors and muffled sound. Water droplets landed on the sheets, an eternity passed before she found they were her own. Her knees ached from kneeling beside the body on the bed. Though her face rested in the crook of her arm, she could feel the pitying gazes from the staff and their families. No one understood the bond they had. No one could ever understand the pain they had endured, the secrets they held, the love and respect held between them.

To the world they were just children. Children playing at being adults, adults who were capable of the kind of love that would last, her family would expect her to move on quickly; there was no time for love in their strictly scheduled lives. Or in hers.

"Get up." Her mother's cold voice filtered through the door. Shock registered first, that the madame herself would lower herself to the role of parent and actually come for her child. Next came the anger, the anger of her expectancy for life to just be "normal" again. Nothing could ever be normal.

"Denise get up. The boy is dead and you've held the funeral arrangements long enough." She felt cold hands on her shoulders, pulling her up.

When she finally caught view of the woman called "Mother" a silent calm filtered through. Her limbs moved robotically to comply with the demand as had been hammered into her mind as a child. Mrs. Chantelle Ballard did not look sad, or even in mourning. Her clothes were the same bright and professional attire that filled her memories of her mother.

"We are leaving now."

Denise's hand unwound itself from his, the movement of it felt unnatural and wrong. The car smelled bitter, the same air freshener her mother continually insisted was some foreign and expensive scent that was as she put "absolutely divine". The sky was blue, she couldn't even compute how the world did not feel his loss. How could the skies not weep for the loss of Timberwolf.

"I expect now that your blunder of a relationship has been concluded there will be no more of this… bleakness from you. Your next photoshoot has been scheduled for tomorrow and you need to pick up your terrible attitude and smile, you have products to sell."

"Yes mother."

Her voice sounded wrong, nasally and all sharp corners.

-LB-

Her bedroom was altogether too bright, even with the curtains drawn, there was so much… color. Even among the numerous ensembles forced upon her in the name of advertising hanging in her closet, it was so bright. Her eyes darted around the room and she stumbled towards her adjoined study. It was plain in there. A small box awaited her from her desk, it had sat there for the weeks following his death. Part of her longed to open it, to smooth her fingers over the glossy beads, to count them from top to bottom and back up even though she'd known the number for years.

Most of all to hear that little voice, to see the small form of the friend she had abandoned in the haze of grief.

She was scared.. terrified to see what kind of monster she'd become if she allowed herself the freedom of her mask. Was she even fit for this anymore? After he died, his miraculous had simply disappeared; the final injustice of his death, his kwami had taken the miraculous and run, leaving her crying and trembling over a body and too many stories to tell.

Denise looked down, her thumbnail had fit itself neatly in the crevice in-between the box's lid and body.

No.

She put it down. Too close.

"I can't do that. New York doesn't deserve to have you running around like that."

She could feel Gata awaiting her. The power inside the box, too powerful for someone so destroyed. Why did she have to want it so bad?

The world was hunting for Tigress. Denise never went a day without seeing a snippet of news. Fan-sites speculating the disappearance or the "truth" as the put it. Despite the numerous times shortly after the event she had announced his death. Newspaper spreads after the event wondering who her next partner would be or if "New York's favorite heroine would ever come home?".

In the home of the owner and CEO of Ballard enterprises life would go on. Her mother would scoff at the heroes, "children playing at heroism." she would say. Her father would smile at her and lighten the mood before running off to whatever design was on his mind.

It's why she barely saw him.

-LB-

The clock buzzed at too-early AM, staff began to enter and move about her room as she picked herself up.

Her breakfast tasted remarkably like cardboard, not that it mattered. All that really mattered was being "tip-top shape" and "thin". The model standard. She let the stylists work their magic on her hair and face. Let them cover up the bags under her eyes from sleeping at her desk most nights. Let them disguise the unhealthy pallor she developed from the stress.

By the time they had finished she looked like the glamorous ideal she was supposed to be. Shiny black hair and blue eyes. The legs that sell and the smile they buy.

"Smile Miss." "You look so pretty when you smile." "Bigger, like your momma just brought you a big pile of spaghetti!" She felt sick. She felt insane. She felt a traitor in these bright clothes and colors. People in mourning don't dress like this. People in mourning don't smile like that. What was she doing here?

Everything blurred together.

-LB-

She couldn't take it anymore. She needed an out. After the shoot Denise made it home as fast as she could. By the time she made it to her study she was panting and nausceous. Every time she'd been made to smile she wanted to vomit. She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry. She wanted to have died instead. Oliver would have been able to move on. Oliver could've been happy again. Every moment felt too long, too prevalent, he could make the world sing.

It took six strides to make it to her desk. It took only a few seconds to take up the box and flick it open with the satisfying click. The beads were cool and smooth, they stabilized her. In a ball of light, Gata appeared before her and took in the panting, crying form of her charge.

"Denise,"

The word was awkward in her mouth but needed to be said. The only way to convey what she needed. "Please." Her voice broke at the end and she slumped down.

Gata floated forward, brushing against Denise's hand supportively.

"Gata, Let's dance."

**Thanks for reading!**


End file.
